The Author's Notes
by Foolscapping
Summary: The End spoilers. End!verse. A sequel to The Epilogue in a Very Long Biography. "Five months since he got Sam back, he sets an alarm to wake up in the early morning hours."
1. The Author's Notes

**Genre: **Hurt/Angst/Comfort  
**Pairing:** Gen.  
**Rating: **Mature  
**Word Count:** 4,860  
**Warnings:** Suicide and thoughts of suicide, violence, blood, angst, serious subject matters like depression.  
**Prompt:** The End spoilers. End!verse. "Five months since he got Sam back, he sets an alarm to wake up in the early morning hours."

**Author's Notes: **This is a _**sequel**_to my endverse fic, The Epilogue to a Very Long Bibliography! Please check that out first! Though this might make sense without it. Sorta.

(I should be working on the Born Again verse; I'm sorry I'm so lame.)

* * *

It's 2022, and there aren't any hovercrafts or weird futuristic costumes. There are rusted trucks and old hand-me-downs covered in holes and popped seams. Sam is turning 40 today, past the age he expected either of them to ever reach, so Dean supposes that's one blessing he should count (and not one he should ever give angels or God credit for).

Dean had only found him three months ago: after Lucifer and the Croats, after the death and destruction that had followed Sam's body being taken... after a futile struggle that had accumulated with Dean's neck being snapped under his brother's foot, he had finally found Sam years and years later, toiling away in a field out there with a weary walk and a stroke of gray in that unruly hair. Dean had said his name, spun him around, and let Sam melt into his chest, let Sam beg for death under his chin while he covered him in snot and tears. Dean wondered, then, where all of the slowly festering anger and betrayal and hatred for the man had gone.

... No, not hate. That was the frustrating part. That the hate didn't come to him like it should've. Day after day back then, looking for Lucifer, Dean had _wished _he could despise Sam long enough to get the job done. When he'd found him all these years later working in a settlement, he'd expected to slam his fist into Sam's face. Smack him, make him bleed. Spit and curse and belittle him. He let the world down. He burned it all up, splashed the seasons full of blood and pus and darkness, and for that, Dean wasn't sure he could ever truly forgive him.

But he didn't hate him. He loved him so much it made his chest hurt, stole his breath. Even if Dean had changed after all these years into this far more bitter, angry, tired man, it was one constant in his life: he loved his little brother too much. And in a way, he helped walk Sam right into Satan's arms. Knowing that much, remembering the infant that teetered toward him, reliving those years on the road in his head... Love's a bitch. A cruel fucking mistress, that's what.

He wakes up in camp and stretches, gets the kinks out of his neck, and wanders outside to greet a surprisingly hot summer day. The sun pokes holes through the trees and the air smells like pine needles. He goes to Sam's cabin, ready to wake his brother with a neutral frown and drag him off to force food down his throat. His brother had always been a picky eater, and after Jess he had just never recuperated into anything healthy - a salad here and there, water, a beer. He probably thought Dean never paid any mind to his diet other than to mock his croutons. Nowadays, Sam is muscular but it's all muscle on bone, too thin for a guy his height, and he seems to want to occupy his time any other way except through nourishing himself.

"Sam, rise and shine."

He claps on the door again. His nerves are already frayed at having to do it twice, because it had been hard enough finally trusting his brother to be alone in his own place. When they'd first picked him up, Sam was hysterical at the sight of him, ready to throw himself under a blade once he was in their company, and in that first week Sam had cut himself. Bad. Severed the artery in his neck, pumped blood onto the floor, everything. Of course, his body never seemed to want to stay dead, and Dean can't help but be glad he at least has some fucked-up power that keeps him going. Some... hell-spawn left in his chest, courtesy of Lucifer. A violation to the shreds of his humanity. Still, that angel-birthed strength is fading, and like hell is Dean relying on it. He thinks about how often Sam must've tried to cut into himself before and it makes him ill.

Things got a little better, though. Sam had promised Dean that he wouldn't turn a knife on himself, or a gun, or a fucking rope, or anything like that. But promises only go so far before paranoia kicks in. _What if he's dead for real in there? _Just got him back and he'd be in a heap on the floor again, pouring his life out and going pale as a ghost. Dean'd spent a very large portion of the End of the World imagining how he would burn his brother's body if he had to, how Sam would go out. Where he would shoot him, if he had to. He had pumped himself up for it like he was goddamn Rocky, training for it, letting his emotions flutter away and leave the soldier his dad had always prepared him to be.

Lately, he's been having nightmares of sawing through Sam's neck with a combat knife, and he'd wake up shaking and go to peer into Sam's window for affirmation that everything was alright.

Fuck it. He opens the door and is relieved to find the room immaculately cleaned and free of any lumbering little brothers. Of course, _then _he spirals into the fear that Sam has run off. Or that someone has taken him. That maybe he's not even at the camp at all.

He ends up pacing all over the grounds and eventually over to Risa, who's overlooking their crops with a large frown on her face. It doesn't take long to figure out why: Castiel is crouched in the middle of a new furrow in the earth, and Sam is kneeling next to him, toiling away and shoveling up dirt to make way for seeds. Dean can't hear the ex-angel from where he stands, but his face looks patient and his words are likely soft. He sees him trying to carefully pry the trowel from his brother's tightly clenched hand and comes to the conclusion that Sam must be in one of his trances.

"Nobody saw him sneak out last night, but he's probably been at this for a while," Risa says, arms crossed. She's one of the few from the old days who had stayed behind. Dean had never bothered telling her she had died all those years ago as a diversion, but the fact that he had done it at all leaves his stomach in knots; she's a loyal friend now - maybe with benefits, but a friend - and one of the few that accepted Sam into this place. For what reason, he wasn't sure; she had lost everything, same as the others. Maybe she just pities him, that tall nervous guy who doesn't sleep or eat enough. Maybe she forgives better than Dean ever gave her credit for. She continues, "Cas has been trying to get him to stop for the last half-hour." A considering pause. "Didn't want to wake you up unless he couldn't snap him out of it."

Dean heaves a sigh. _Of course. _He eyeballs the scene and, yeah, it looks like there's a lot of work done since yesterday. Sam's been out for a while, and he kicks himself and tries to squash the urge to force his brother to sleep in the same cabin again.

This wasn't the first time Sam had done this. Sometimes, something in his Sam's head would go off, a light switch of sorts, and Dean would find him hammering away at nails on boards, trying to add on more homes for any new survivors. Or he would do this, wander to the gardens and fields and start frantically planting and sowing and extending their crops out further. The first time, Dean had let him go for a while (bitterly, maybe, because he was still adjusting to positive emotions; sue him). Figured it was cathartic for the giant. He soon realized that it was mostly Sam trying to punish himself, and Dean had dragged him back to their shared cabin dehydrated, fingers stiff and painfully bent. He was pissed, had snapped at Sam, felt like shit afterward when his little brother ultimately apologized again. Dean came to realize that Sam was just - mentally fucked up like the rest of them, in his own unique ways. Cas liked his drugs and liquor and sex. Dean liked to hide under anger and blunt righteousness and commands. Sam wanted to work until he collapsed into his own grave.

He wanders over and Castiel's voice floats on the breeze. "The crops can wait, Sam. You'll certainly regret this in the morning. Think of the cramps..."

But Sam's eyes are glazed over and he's not looking at Castiel. His lips move but the words are on mute and it's pathetic and sad and makes Dean choke down a lump. _This _fucking idiot. He ruined everything. He damned the world. And Dean loves him too much to think anything beyond that. Hell, his mind starts going in reverse. _Maybe Sam just wanted to save it. Maybe he tried, he really fucking did, but it wasn't enough. How would I know, because I wasn't there. _How is he supposed to fault him for that? He crouches (knees crackling) next to Castiel and the man surrenders his spot and scoots back to simply observe with his hands in his lap. Dean hesitates (always), but grabs his brother's heavy mitts, forcing them to sit still. "Hey, Sasquatch, how about you put the Martha Stewart thing on pause for a second there. Cas is about to tell you about his fruity yoga classes."

"You should still try them," Cas chimes in, and Dean just rolls his eyes, tipping Sam's chin back with a hand and looking into listless eyes. It's hard to see him like this. But then the contact is made and Sam blinks wearily, hazel colors caught in the light. Pupils contract. Not Lucifer's eyes. It still catches Dean by surprise. His irises are more green than brown today. Maybe it's a metaphor. Maybe today will be brighter and richer than the muck they usually wade through.

"I see you, princess," Dean says, trying to smile. He has a hard time figuring out how to look like a supportive big brother anymore.

"... Hey, Dean."

He pats his brother's shoulders, flimsy and smaller than he remembers, but real under his palms. "You're gonna spend your 40th hunkered down in dirt?" he asks, maybe a little too roughly, and Sam's gaze flitters away, because he's probably thinking _'Yeah, yeah I deserve that'_ or whatever self-flagellation he's working with. Dean inspects his palms, biting the inside of his cheek to see how rigid his fingers are are. Dean's body isn't exactly in the best of shape, but Sam's is running off of fumes, arthritic in his hands and knees. Some days are better than others, though, and they can't complain at a best-case scenario like this. Or at least _he _can't, anyway. "Sam - Chuck's making breakfast today. Says he'll try to get you some of his special pancakes whipped up. Wouldn't trust the first batch, but we can use Cas as a guinea pig."

"It's a weight I'll bear," Cas adds dryly, and the two of them drag Sam up so that he's standing up. Sam laughs, and Dean's heart staggers at the sound, because the deep hum of his brother sounding _happy _is hard to come by. With each passing day he finds himself cataloging more genuine smiles, a few content chuckles, a sheepish grin. It gives him a reason to think this might all be okay someday. He tallies the victories. _Satan is dead. Sam isn't cutting anymore. Croats are dying out. Sam's gained a few pounds. A baby is born. Sam is sleeping through some nights. A store opens up. Sam makes a friend. New people show up. Sam is alive._

He claps Sam on the back and they wander back toward the scent of food.

"Why is Chuck in charge of breakfast?" Sam grumbles, huffing, "I thought we were trying to survive."

In the kitchen, Chuck and some of the hyper kids who have joined his ranks have baked Sam a cake. Vanilla, with icing and old candles and his name on top. There aren't enough candles, but they're in good shape, vivid colors dripping down away from the flame; The lantern in the room dims and the kids clumsily sing, unaware of Sam's struggle in watching them. They just want him to have a good time. One of them made Sam a card, and their spelling is atrocious because education is hard out here. Sam ducks his reddened face and rubs his eyes like he's tired, and Dean isn't sure whether or not it's making Sam feel like shit — even still, he quietly slips Sam a few classical books in nearly mint condition, and the genuine look of surprised, misty-eyed fondness make it worth the unavoidable lack of self-worth.

It's the most content Dean has truly been since he'd gone to Hell.

Maybe there's hope after all.

* * *

Dean has a ritual now, because he's sick of Sam wandering and not being caught for so long doing it. He's mastering the skill.

Five months since he got Sam back, he sets an alarm to wake up in the early morning hours. He creeps out into the dark world and presses his ear against his brother's door. Sometimes he can hear his brother in the middle of a nightmare. Sometimes, he's sobbing. And sometimes he catches Sam sleep-walking himself out to the fields again and has to turn him around and walk him back home. Or sometimes his brother is already out there. This time, Sam is sobbing - deep, drowning, hushed sobs that leave Dean frozen for a moment, because there it is: his brother's humanity. Proof of his mistakes, but proof that Sam deserves life after it. He opens the door carefully and wanders over to the bed. This — this comes to him easier than it did during the first few weeks. It had been a very, very long time since he truly touched his brother's arm, his shoulder. The ability to comfort is still there, but god is it buried deep. Sometimes he feels like such an awful, shitty person, he's not sure how he can.

"Sam."

Sam twitches harshly under his heavy palm. He rambles, "It was me, I wasn't strong enough, it was me, it was always me, I'm a monster, I deserve to die, I'm so sorry, please, please, I'm sorry — they're all gone, everyone's gone, and I killed them — everyone, it was me, it was me." When Dean turns on a lantern he can see that Sam's face is wet, eyes rimmed red and raw, mouth drawn taut and distorted with his grief; he carefully gathers his brother up in his arms, drags his legs up onto the bed, and encompasses him as best he can. This is gonna be a bad night and a bad morning after. Sam's gonna make himself literally sick, will probably have a fever and end up laying in bed and taking a few of the rare ibuprofen they have stored in the back. They'll probably have to get one of the younger kids to ask Sam to take it, because he has a hard time refusing medication from the kids.

He puts a hand on Sam's arm and rubs it reassuringly, pats down his shoulder and ribs, keeping tabs on how much weight he's gained or lost, making mental notes. After a while, the sobs die down against Dean's chest, until they sit in the silence for an hour or two. Running a hand over Sam's unkempt bangs, he feels the body stir from a light sleep and drowsily shift. " — Dean...?" Must be out of it, if can't remember why Dean's practically spooning him or petting him like a fat cat or something. He feels the amusement in his chest, but it doesn't quite reach his face, not that Sam can see him in the dark.

He finally mumbles, "I have a lot of things I'm sorry for, y'know? It's not just you. I mean... I just — I spent a lot of time thinking of things I should've done differently."

Sam curls his fingers in Dean's shirt.

Dean continues, "I tried for a while to wrap my head around how this happened, you know? Tried to think of what was going through your head. And I — you know, I shoulda' never left you behind like I did. Me selling my soul... you in the panic room, and then Lucifer... You had to face everything on your own... and I act like you're the one who runs away, but I ran away, too. I ran, too. And I'm sorry, okay? I got a lot I'm sorry for. I'm really sorry. Think you can forgive me?"

His brother scoffs in a way that is likely self-deprecating, but he says, "Apology accepted, I guess."

And then, more quietly, "Please don't leave me."

* * *

Raelyn visits sometimes with her daughter, Ariel, who was most assuredly named after The Little Mermaid. Sam is always hesitant around them, but Dean can tell that he's happy when they're visiting; it's to be expected, because his brother remembers the faces of kindness all too well during a time where there were very few. Sam's a chump like that, when it comes to emotionally attachment.

It had been a bad day beforehand — actually, a bad week, because Sam had hit another bout of depression that wiped them both of energy; Dean had spent Friday night with Castiel and Chuck holding Sam down, while he forced water and soup down his throat. It's not ever a solution, but it's all they can do. He won't watch his brother starve to death — or torture himself, starvation on the cusp of his sleeve. He hates to imagine how often Sam had avoided food before he found him in the fields. Now that his strange powers were deflating, it was leaving a Sam more and more capable of collapsing and never getting back up. And that terrified Dean.

The wrestling match Friday night had ended with soup everywhere but on the insides of Sam's stomach. Still, Dean had ultimately won, when he sent some of the first-graders to Sam with the offer of baked cookies and a sliced apple, because the gigantor literally couldn't bring himself to turn down the children's requests; Sam had told him how many kids Lucifer crushed to bits in Sam's body, when nights were bad. He doesn't want to think about it for longer than necessary.

Sam's energy flourishes in Raelyn's company, and he holds the baby in his lap, lets her sit up and stare out at everyone with wide eyes that make Dean more optimistic than usually allowed. Life goes on, he thinks. He smiles genuinely when Sam talks to Raelyn and her husband, colorful motion in his hands, a light in his eyes. He bounces his knees for Ariel and motions at the air, talking about harvest. At one point, he even laughs upward — not downward, but up, at the sky, like there's something to look forward to up there, like life had meaning anywhere but in the dirt. _Sky's the limit. _They talk about the new people rolling into camp, things those people enjoy. Raelyn knows how to talk to his brother without chipping his mood to bits, or turning it into withdrawn shame; he likes that about her. She's better than him, more often than naught, and he's gotten past feeling jealous.

A few days later, Sam saves a kid from drowning in the river nearby. His little brother breathes out like he's dodged one hell of a bullet. Redemption, right there. A little dollop of redemption, and Sam drinks water and eats his damn soup. Dean actually summons up the audacity and livelihood to flick a spoonful of oatmeal at Sam's dumb hair, and wonders when it had started being pleasant to be his old self again.

* * *

"Think you'll ever have kids?" Sam asked, just once. "Maybe, I mean, if this is all - worked out?"

"Kinda weird topic to leap into, Sam."

"It's not like we have contraceptives or condoms in hot demand like we used to. We'll run out. And you, uh, aren't exactly covert about your late-night flings."

_Well, point taken. _He shrugs, and for once is not the bitter leader that used to shoot infected men point-blank in the skull. Softly: "No kid would want me. You?"

Sam looks completely horrified, which is something Dean will think about a lot tonight. "No."

* * *

"You'd tell me if you didn't want me around, right? You'd tell me if you don't want to be around me — right? Just tell me and I'll go, Dean. You just have to say."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Sam."

* * *

It's been two years since they found Sam.

Sam is missing again.

Sam is missing, and Dean is frantic. He yells in people's faces and scares the kids and probably looks psychotic, but there's a little blood on the ground near Sam's cabin door and he can't — he _couldn't _find Sam somewhere with a bullet through his skull. Or hanging, a swaying mass in some gnarled up fucking tree. He couldn't, and he's not sure what he'll do if — fuck, fuck. _Fuck_. Cas doesn't even bother trying to console him, just rushes around himself with a sort of bizarre panic behind his eyes that he reserves for almost nothing. Risa is shaking her head, talking to some newer settlers at the camp, but for every face that pops up in the search, there's no Sam. He's gone, he's fucking _gone_, Dean's fucked up, he's failed, he was never supposed to be taking care of another living person ever again —

Someone yells for him to come over quickly.

He runs hard and fast until he's in the back of the camp, near and the old cabin they'd used for storage, just before the chain-link fence. He expects to see more blood. And there is. There's blood on the grass, spittle that never quite reached a decent puddle; then he hears Sam. When he gets to the back of the shitty old wooden structure, Cas is there with a handful of other men and women trying to pry open a cellar door smudged with blood, locked from the outside with stone-heavy chains and a rusted padlock. The panicked screams for help are his brother's, stuck behind the thudding wooden frame, and Dean's blood boils while his stomach simultaneously drops. He's going to rip someone apart tonight, he thinks, as he shoves through and leans into the doors, barking out orders like his father, if only because he has no way else to try and make this better. _Get the fuck out of the way_. Inside, Sam screams like someone's twisting his arm out of the socket. "Sam, Sam! Calm down. We're gonna get you out, okay? You need to be _calm_."

Sam moans, never stops rambling in a jumbled, hysterical (_slurred_) tone, "Dean — it's dark, I _can't _— I can't do this again, I can't; the rings didn't _work_, Dean — He's got me again. He's always had me, Dean. The rings didn't work; I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't win, I wasn't — good enough. Oh, god, it's so dark. Not again, not again — " And all Dean can do while they get the axe is try to hush him, try to calm him down with _it's okay, Sam_, and_we're all here to get you out_ and _it'll be fine_. But all he could think was that someone shoved his brother into a cellar and locked him into the creeping darkness below, and he wants to smash their noses in with his fists. They may have had a sob story, a reason._He doesn't care._

"Sammy," he rumbles, face close to the door, intimately so. "Sam, stop! Listen to me!" The banging stops. Sam's breathing is stuttered, not a healthy rhythm, while Dean smooths his palm over the old door, wondering if Sam's hand is on the other side. Wondering if he still has that sixth sense the two share that hasn't exactly disappeared. "Sam, we're gonna use the axe, but you have to move, okay? You get hit, I'm gonna revoke your gardening privileges. I don't think you want that, little brother."

The last two words feel unnatural leaving his mouth nowadays, but Sam's breathing hitches at it, and his muffled voice stammers, "Kay, Dean. H'Okay."

When they finally rip the damn double doors off the hinges, Sam staggers up into the light like he's being chased by the inky dark below. Dean has to catch his breath. His eyes are nearly swollen shut, blood from his nose carpeting his chin and shirt and hands. His cheek is torn open, his lip twice its normal size on one side. Without a second thought, Dean collects the swaying, panting giant into his arms and sits him down, runs hands over him to find broken bones. There are bruised ribs and molted marks and one dislocated shoulder. Sam didn't fight back; Dean knows he didn't, because he knows his brother now — maybe even knows him better than he did before Lucifer, before Dad dying and Sam leaving for school. He doesn't want to know his brother like this.

"Who did it, Sam? Who fucking did it? Sam?" He shoves his brother's hair aside, noting an oozing cut that will need stitches, unhappy with how Sam lolls and lists to the side at every prodding finger. There are finger marks on Sam's neck: a perfect grouping, five fingers on each hand. Sam refuses to tell him who did it, but they find a body on the outskirts of the camp — Ethan Matheson's body (new guy, construction worker, lost his children, lost his girlfriend, lost everything) was half-submerged in the river with a bullet in his skull, straight through the roof of his mouth. Watching Sam sit idly in front of this man's grave, Dean has no doubt who had beaten his brother's face into a pulp. The desire to fly into a blind rage about it has been stolen from him.

Sam looks at Dean when he approaches, cross-legged there after having deposited flowers on the soil, face covered in stitches and tape'n'gauze and some kid's heart-patterned bandaid, and asks, "Why?"

He knows Sam isn't asking why the guy attacked him; he's asking why he stopped. Why he died instead of Sam.

Dean crouches down to the earth, nudges Sam's good shoulder, and wordlessly offers him a beer. Sam will probably not sleep well for a few days. Will need to be force-fed pain pills. He'll also have to get one of the little kids in the camp to give Sam breakfast... hide the knives and guns, just in case. Sleep on Sam's cabin floor tonight; maybe he'll read something off of Sam's big shelf. Sam's face'll get better. He'll help Sam out in the fields, make sure the kid drinks enough water.

He breathes in deep and puts a hand on the nape of Sam's neck, rocking them for a moment, absorbing the warm sensation of Sam living beneath his fingers.

They sit in their silence and watch the sky bruise, then shimmer in the dark.

* * *

Sam sputters, "Holy _shit._ Your _face _— "

This was Cas' stupid fucking idea. Stomping grapes — who stomps _grapes_? Fuck wine, why don't they just make moonshine? They're already all drunk off it, and it's not like it takes fifty years or a degree in rocket science. Jesus, it's in his hair; he's got purple jam in his hair, on his knees. Dean Winchester is a _hunting machine_, someone you shake in your boots at; he does not trip over his own buckets and plaster himself in half-crushed grape corpses. Sam croaks out, "If we put him out in the sun, you think he's sour enough to go raisin on us?" Cas is laughing hard, nothing like an angel, and Sam (Sam, who had almost stayed in bed, who couldn't even eat half a goddamn sandwich the day before) is laughing hard too, so hard his arms have to hold his ribs in one place — gasping and giggling until his face is red, because Dean is shaking a bucket off his ass like he's a cartoon and — there are tears in Sam's eyes, like he's doing this all giddily at a prank, like he's gluing bottles to hands and scaring Dean awake with a car radio; his cheeks are bright red, eyes are lucid, more green than brown, and he's laughing and laughing, and Dean doesn't laugh because his throat closes up, choked at the sight.

He scoops up a glob of jelly and smashes it into Sam's hair. They don't break windows and mirrors and tables in an old motel. They don't slam their fists into each other's faces. Dean never collapses on his back and Sam never walks away. The purple mess drips off his brother's thin face, and it's not blood. And Sam laughs.


	2. EXTRA1: Prelude

**EXTRA1: Prelude**

* * *

Takes place before everything.

* * *

The sun beats down on the earth and bakes everything and everyone in its path without mercy. Sam can think of a few things that could relate to the sun, bright and strong and overwhelming, all of which make his mouth dry and a hot shiver slither up his spine. He's not sure where he is now; it's somewhere in California, he'd like to think, but it's hard to tell where he is based on weather patterns anymore. All he knows is that it's scorching, dust whipping in loose circles to catch in his untamed hair.

He runs into a group traveling from place to place, scavenging for what they can, wary and wear and ready to attack whatever attacked first. The Croats, while not as intensely overwhelming as they had been when — when, um… Lucifer was around, they were still an on-going problem. As it was, the tiny close-knit group had lost two people last week already to the virus. Sam wishes there was something he could do to bring them all back. But the power left inside of him after the archangel had been ripped out his body (released like ripped up pieces of a letter on the breeze) could do nothing against the stinking stain left in a person's blood once the virus had found its way inside. It makes Sam feel a coil of disgust and self-hate when he thinks about it, when he thinks about how he's free not to worry because of that original dribble of demon blood, that tar that had turned him into something less than human. He doesn't fight that fact anymore. He knows what he is now, that Dean had been right. He was a freak. And he was a monster. And Dean wasn't the only one who knew it, either; each day posed the risk of running into someone who knew, exactly, where his face had come from. What he'd done to society. Oftentimes, he was met with horror, though other times, pure unadulterated fury (for homes, for friends, for families, for livelihoods lost). More and more as people learned about him, realization at who he was meant Sam would have a few dozen buckshots to tweeze out of his flesh in the dead of night, by dim flashlight.

He's lucky, today. He's blessed. None of the eight or so people recognize the man who ruined everything. There will be no bullets to unwedge from his bones today. No waiting for his gurgling, slit throat to mend itself back together. He shouldn't feel so relieved; he knows he has it coming to him. He just feels bad for them, that all of their efforts to smother his life out keep failing; it's like one of those fake birthday cake candles, where you blow and blow and blow and it just flickers and laughs back in your face. He sits with these people, haunted and guilty but so eager for interaction after being trapped inside Lucifer's shadow for what felt like a thousand years. He refuses their offer of food, though. He has to draw the line at their kindness somewhere. He makes up for wasting their time with him by going into the more dangerous sections of the small city, fetching anything he can that could be useful later. Sam finds he can see really well in the dark, and then at least he'll see the Croats coming on top of being immune to their mindless violence.

They rest up for a night, when Sam decides to offer them the direction to a settlement a few miles away, and it seems to brighten their outlooks considerably when he describes the small, homely place. He had helped the settlement repair some old cars for emergency purposes, after they'd had found an old garage lined with big, red gasoline cans. As it turns out, the original owner of the place had wanted to be ready for the end of the world. Gasoline was a must to juice their car up fat and happy for the long haul (one they never got to, it sadly seems). Dean would have loved to have it for Baby, he thinks. Dean must still keep her cleaned up and put away. He has to, because that was their home. Dean's home… Dean's and Dad's, if not Sam's. He should ask if he can have one of them, maybe drop it off on the outskirts of Dean's encampment if he can ever find it. He'd carry it around for as long as he had to, if it meant giving Dean a chance to give the Impala a spin on the road again. He reminds himself, chides really, that it's not his to take. People need it to survive. He's taken enough from people.

It's not a huge population, he tells them, but the place is flourishing, which is better than roaming in dangerous territory. The small nomadic group easily agreed to follow.

Sitting by the fire, Sam takes first watch to look out for any signs of danger, while the others rest up for the trek ahead. The night is much cooler, drying sweat his neck and filling the usual void of rustic silence with crickets and the occasional owl call. Someone sleeping shifts and sighs in the calmness, the kind of noise you make when you dream of better things. It causes a small, hesitant smile to curl on his lips, until he notices with a start that someone in the back has crawled out from their sleeping bag to join him in the land of the conscious. The fire casts orange splotches over their skin as they wander closer to where he sits. It's an older man, in his fourties, maybe fifties, like his father had been before he died. Sam saw him in the back of the group, meek and very tired looking, hair peppered black and white, burns on his arms and cheek. He'd been afraid to know what had happened to him. Either way, it's likely Sam's fault it happened.

Why is he disrespecting all these people by walking the same earth as them? He wants to tear his own throat out more and more, for every groove of puckered, shining skin he sees. He looks away.

"You're Sam Winchester," the man whispers in a rough voice. If ever a name to make his blood run cold, it's his own. He whips his horrified gaze around to meet a surprisingly calm one. The man holds up his hands, one set of fingers bent unnaturally. "Please. Don't be afraid. I won't… I won't tell anyone who you are. I'm Quinton. I, um. I don't think you remember me, huh?"

Sam doesn't, not at all, and that scares him, too. His heart is pounding away in his chest, the coldness in the night dissipated.

Quinton sits down next to him. He says quietly, "I was — possessed. By a demon. Took me around all over the place. He… answered to the thing in your body. Guess the monster riding around in me needed me to take orders from, from… Lucifer. I did things to people. Horrible things I can't ever forget, not even 'til I die, maybe." He holds out his arms, as if inventorying each mauled inch of flesh. Now doesn't seem like the time to speak, not with how the man seems to be bracing himself to tell him all this; Sam just forces his mouth shut, hands clasped on his knees hard enough to bruise. "I got burned like this out of someone's personal vengeance for what the demon did; I can't say it didn't make me feel a little better… A hunter realized what was goin' on, had it exorcised." Kill me, he thinks. Kill me for this. He remembers now, the faintest memory of Quinton's voice peeking through the veil of blackness, only his voice wasn't soft like this. It was sharp and confident and dripped with chaotic energy. God.

"I'm so… sorry," he manages, without choking. But a lump in his throat makes things complicated. He feels like he can't even try to swallow. Feels like it's impossible to move at all. When he speaks again, it's with great difficulty, eyes burning, bowing his head. "I'm so sorry, Quinton. None of this should've… I'm sorry. I wish I could fix it. All of it, I'd do anything…"

The man's hand is a warmth on his shoulder that takes Sam by surprise. It doesn't even hurt. It occurs to Sam, to his dismay, that it's comfort being offered to him. Quinton says, more firmly, "Don't. It got you, too. Didn't it? You didn't want t'do the things you did, either. I could tell watching you, you felt the same way. It takes something out of you, when they're finally gone from you. Makes life… harder. Makes looking at people in the face harder. But, um… I just. I just wanted to say — " The man ducks his head, lip quivering. "I just wanted to say it's okay. It's good that you're vertical, that you're alive. I don't… hold anything against you. You got more in common with me than anyone else can understand — I see that it broke you something awful, too. And I don't blame you. For breaking. Or for doin' the breaking."

Sam can't believe the words spoken. Quinton's wrong; he doesn't understand the full story, probably. Lucifer only got to him because Sam wasn't strong enough to protect humanity. He was reckless and foolish to think he ever could hold his own, and now everyone's suffering from one simple word he'd said, a word not even spoken with complete assuredness. This man couldn't have had any chance to outrun a demon's smoke, but Sam looked Lucifer's rotting suit in the eye and knew what he was up against.

But this kindness — the sympathy and understanding — it smashes through Sam with a force that might as well have been him being flung from a car. He squeezes his eyes shut, curls himself into a tight ball, and gambles his sanity by putting his hand over the one still splayed on his shoulder. There is nothing, for many weeks after this, that will relieve him more than the hand not pulling away in rejection. "Thank you," he barely croaks, forehead against his knees. "Thank you. I'm so sorry. Thank you."

"I've learned to forgive myself, Sam," the man says, "It's a lot to hope for, but… I hope someday you can forgive yourself, too."

Sam feels like such a thing is just a ridiculous fantasy. Quinton looks at him like it's just out there, waiting for him.

The few weeks after that night, Sam stays with them at the small settlement, helping clear out damaged buildings full of dusty or broken things. He works day to day until his shirt is doused in sweat, skipping meal after meal, wandering night after night, ignoring the alluring call of sleep. As always, the people inside the camp grow unsure of him. Unsettled by his inhumanity. Sam simply makes sure he's gone off into the night before his name starts floating on the wind. But he makes sure to keep Quinton's name with him.


	3. EXTRA2: Better Than Sorry

**EXTRA2:** Better Than Sorry

* * *

Takes place after The Epilogue to a Very Long Biography, but before The Author's Notes.

* * *

Cas finds he doesn't really blame Sam for much of anything these days.

He knew that, as the years passed, Dean had held some bitterness, some resentment. Blame. He isn't sure what Dean feels _now _that Sam was back in their care (relieved, happier than he's been a long time, perhaps re-evaluating his old burning resentments), but Cas? By the time they found Sam in that quiet little settlement years into the end (and beginning) of the world, Cas was contented to see a picture of him on Raelyn's wall of memories. Not to let it get twisted, like he's some symbol of peace and love — before the virus hit, and even for a little time after, he had been bitter, angry, directed his blame on Sam to an unfair degree. He had been angry that he gave up his place in the clouds for some kid to go and give away his consent to the vilest angel of all. He was just bitter in general.

It was a foolish thing to feel, if he's honest. He had his role in this just as much as any other angel, regardless of his 'Bible Camp' return to Heaven (as Dean would call it). Castiel had long before ignored Sam's prayers alongside the other angels. Castiel had turned a blind eye to Sam Winchester's death in Cold Oak. Castiel had let Sam Winchester out of the panic room. Castiel had known, by letting him out, just what fate awaited both Sam and the world. Castiel the Stoic Angel Soldier had known all these things, but it's only Cas the Drugged Out Lump who has never forgiven Sam, because he's not so sure that there's anything that needs to be forgiven. Nothing at all, if he's honest. Not to him. Perhaps Dean may have deserved something from Sam that Cas was unaware of — he's not sure what happened between them after the panic room — but Cas? No. No, no. Cas, baked and lounging in a bed with a lovely young woman for the night, considers that what happened to him was his own punishment. He had deserved to lose his wings more than Dean did his compassion, or Sam his sanity.

It just took him years to reach such a conclusion.

The first few nights back in their camp for Sam is undeniably difficult. Cas has no illusions that Sam would take their reappearance in his life well, especially after he'd thrown himself down in despair when they found him a few days ago, begging for mercy and death, as if that was what they were expecting out of him (and really, cynical as Cas is, he's human enough now to feel the ache in that fact). Now Sam's sleeping somewhat restfully in his own cabin, one he suspects Dean had kept ready for Sam, even if he was never sure if Sam was alive one day or the next; there are old but legible books lined up on shelves and more care put into the journals and writing utensils than Dean's ever given to anyone else in their camp. Cas isn't bitter about it; this is how Dean's always been. Years ago he would have put a bullet between Lucifer's eyes; now he's carefully making sure Sam's room is to his liking. The way Dean mourns for the loss of what his brother used to be is clear. Cas would do the same, now that he's not as much angel as he is just another survivor. That's why Cas takes great pleasure in finding books and stocking Sam's room with them. He considers maybe he should just fill it up until Sam isn't able to move left or right.

His thoughts are interrupted by Dean screaming — not simply yelling, but screaming, and there is a profound difference. Cas rushes from his walk to the source and feels a icy lump in the pit of his stomach when he finds himself standing in front of Sam's cabin. Inside, Sam is sprawled on the floor, blood under his head and shoulders, and Dean's got both hands clamped over his brother's neck. Cas is able to put two and two together. Sometimes he wishes he couldn't. Dean's on the verge of hyperventilating, eyes stormy and afraid, as he yells at confused citizens, "Get me the first aid and the doctor over here!"

They all obey, because it's never good to ignore their leader.

Cas is at Sam's side quickly, putting a hand on the man's chest — his heart is still beating, but he's pale. Judging from the volume of blood he's already lost (soaking into Dean's jeans, into Sam's hair, into the floorboards), Sam _should _already be dead; despite that, when Cas looks at Sam's face, he's surprised to find Sam's eyes listlessly tracking him, face dotted with red spots and wet with salty trails. With Dean too terrified to take his hands off the jagged wound pulsing blood, Cas takes it upon himself to put his hand on Sam's cheek, cupping it firmly. Sam's teary eyes widen slightly, then soften, some sort of confused mixture of guilt and fondness present in the action that makes Cas smile. Very thinly. He's not sure how Sam's body works after Lucifer's departure; simply that it does. He supposes the devil is to blame for that.

Since Dean is busy repeating Sam's name over and over and telling him what a fucking moron he is, Cas decides his role is to just stroke the side of Sam's hair quietly. Somebody's got to counteract Dean's desperation. Part of him wants to tell Sam that if it's his time he should go, because he's no doubt exhausted with this life, but that isn't what Cas wants. Not at all.

Hours later, when Sam is tucked into bed with extra sheets, the room is thoroughly cleared out of anything else potentially dangerous (hunters are very creative). Dean is vigiliant at his brother's bedside for a long while, stuck enough to his rickety chair that Castiel is nearly unable to get him to go take a piss and eat before he implodes. Admittedly, there's a very human and very annoying feeling of pride that comes with the knowledge that Dean would leave his injured, sleeping brother with him, if even for ten minutes. Once he's gone, Cas sits. His feet hurt. It's annoying.

"You can stop pretending to sleep," Cas says wryly. "I'm practically human, but I can sense whether you're awake or not. It's not that hard."

Sam's eyes pry open with some difficulty. He's exhausted, but he's not sleeping. Cas congratulates himself on his endless patience with Winchesters.

"Sorry," Sam breathes. One of Cas' _least _favorite words. They weren't common where he's from, and it grates on him just a little. He shakes his head, one hand sitting beside Sam's. Sam is considerably pale compared to him, small moles here and there across his skin. He reaches out and carefully pats his knuckles. "You're apologizing for something that has no effect on me. I'm guessing that's a common thing, these days."

There's probably another_ 'sorry' _to be had here. Sam juts his jaw a bit instead, eyes closed. Cas glances at the starkly white gauze there around his neck. The sutures must throb something fierce.

Sam says, voice nearly a whisper, it's so thin, "I don't understand. I thought you would have hated me. I ruined your family. You're human now… You didn't get the paradise you all wanted… Humanity isn't the only thing I screwed over."

"If this is an attempt to get on my good side, it's not working," Castiel jokes, though he thinks that maybe in his years of being on the ground, he still hasn't perfected his _'ha ha it's a joke get it'_ tone. Or maybe Sam lost that skill trait, the ability to read jokes. He bows his head, considering his words. The ex-angel has had a very, very long time to think about these thoughts, and yet… he still needs time to think about the delivery. It's a bit pathetic. Ultimately, he remembers how to-the-point he used to be, years ago. "Sam. You're not the only one at fault. Have you forgotten that my siblings and I all aimed to have Lucifer freed? We wanted you to say yes, for a long time. Dean didn't say yes, which was equally as damning. This isn't some malicious crime that falls on the shoulders of one man. Or even two."

Sam's gray-rimmed gaze turns toward the wall. He's always been so easily soft-spoken. "Chuck said it did. That it rested on my shoulders."

"Chuck is a moron who hides toilet paper under his bed. I should know, I've stolen many rolls."

Castiel is genuinely surprised to hear a rasping laugh punch its way from his friend.

"You're so different now," Sam replies, "Kind of the same, but mostly different."

Cas shrugs. "People change. Time moves regardless of our intentions."

"You smell like weed a lot, too," Sam says.

This was the man who had sliced his own neck open earlier? Castiel quirks his eyebrow, smirking.

"That is because I smoke copious amounts of it." A pause, and what feels like hesitation. He reaches out and puts a hand on Sam's chest. It's strange, but he sees now why Dean used to be so hands-on with everyone, before he turned into what he had been during the largest swell of Croats. Feeling Sam's chest move under his palm was comforting. As a living creature, having another living creature beside you is wanted. But more importantly, Sam's entire body seems to melt further into the bed, as if such a sensation is enough to calm the very soul that is tattered and trapped inside. "… You did not let Lucifer out on your own, either. I was the one who had unlocked the panic room door, so that you may escape to open the Cage."

The chest under his fanned fingertips tenses just slightly. A price to pay for the truth.

"… You shouldn't have let me out."

Cas nods. "I know."

He knows it's what Sam would want now, anyway. It's complicated.

"I should have died in there. You should have let whatever happen to me happen."

Cas doesn't feel the need to argue that Bobby and Dean would have gone after Lilith anyway. Someone was going to beat Sam to it, only Castiel isn't quite sure what would have happened. Either Lucifer would have been freed regardless, or Lilith would have obliterated the two hunters. Both options aren't very pleasant to think about, especially when coupled with a detoxed Sam, dead and rotting on a filthy cot while he's left behind by an oblivious family who would've probably been marching to their deaths. Even the angelic Castiel would have found it too terrible to think about for long. Then again, he always did have something wrong with the way he functioned as an angel. Sympathy was truly a pain in his ass. Truly.

Cas leans in.

"And just so you're aware… The voice mail that you heard the night you killed Lilith, it was tampered by angels." Sam's eyes widen, hazel pools looking back at him in complete awe. They look at each other for a long moment. "Your brother wanted you back. He said you were family. What you heard, it was… less-than-divine intervention, but it was all an illusion."

He just wanted to let him know. Been waiting years for this. Sam chokes on a delusional sort of laugh, eyes full of tears.

Cas adds with considerable softness, "Don't kill yourself, Sam. Your brother would probably be more trouble than he's worth, if you did."

He moves to lean back, but Sam's hand reaches out to grip his tattered sleeve; he needs a new shirt.

"Thank you, Cas. Thank you so much."

Actually, Sam's sleeve is very tattered, too. He'll need to make arrangements to go pilfer a mall. Do they have shirts his size? Well, Sam's shrunk down quite a bit now, so he'd probably be fine until pants would be an issue…

Cas smiles, lets his hand sit on the bed again at Sam's silent request.

Even if he finds it unnecessary,_ 'thank you' _is better than_ 'I'm sorry'_, anyway.


	4. EXTRA3: Surviving a Blizzard at The End

**EXTRA3:** Surviving a Blizzard at The End of Times, By Castiel

* * *

Takes place before or during The Author's Notes.

* * *

Winter is always an unfortunate season, even before the fall and resurgence of mankind following Lucifer's demise. Just walking outside into that hazy white world is an exercise in stamina, or better yet, an exercise in futility — _How long can I go before I run back inside?_ Not long for Castiel too, as much as he'd like to pretend being an angel gave him thicker skin for the frost and snow (it did… you know, while he _was _an angel). The temperatures are as bad for him as it is for any human lately, and he damns his natural body (not his, technically, he has to remind himself sometimes), and his chattering teeth, and the way his face burns in the winds whipping around outside. He would prefer to never leave his cabin, maybe hole up with some friends with benefits that are scattered about the camp (which is constantly changing, growing, altering itself to adapt to the world). He thinks maybe he should be alarmed that one of his great enjoyments is sliding into bed with someone else. He doesn't particularly care.

Today as it has been for many days beforehand, he's with Sam, and for the most part it's been a very quiet week inside Sam's little abode. The rough weather outside is just too much for most to handle, so everyone intelligent is burning their wood and drearily waiting for the springtime to come back around. For the kids it's exceptionally bad. There are only so many drawings they can make with dirty broken crayons before their minds start to roam into daydreams, the heat of Summer. Admittedly, Cas enjoys watching the children thrive in the spring and enjoy what was supposed to be the _end _of everything. Winter puts a damper on these things.

Dean is away on business. Mostly, that means the camp is low on supplies that are needed to push through to drier, warmer days. It's a general rule between Cas, Dean, and Chuck that Sam is _not _to leave with him, no matter how miserable the taller brother looks before the other goes. And trust when it's said that he looks particularly rejected and miserable. Dean thinks it's too much of a risk, though, because too many people still remember Sam's face out there. And Castiel hates to make Sam look like a scorned child in giant clothes, but he has to agree. It's just too dangerous.

It's hard enough not knowing which new campers will remember a time where Sam's body was not his own.

So here they are. It's already night time, and the oil lamps have been keeping them active, cast in an orange glow. They've ran through a few novels already in the quiet space, Sam eating up any kind of input so that he doesn't dwell on the thought of his brother out there in the blizzard (and really, Dean may _not _be in the blizzard, but stuck somewhere fretting angrily about not being within ten feet of his emotionally scarred brother, while nature tries to turn them all into one giant snow cone; or perhaps one of those odd little globes one would shake to see the snow fall; Castiel has it on his mantle, for some reason; where was he? Ah, yes, quality time with Sam Winchester). He would suggest taking up painting or any sort of art, but Sam is extremely focused on their current game, saying with a thin-lipped expression: "I can't draw worth a shit, Cas."

Cas drops a chipped red piece into the strange yellow board. "I can't either, but when I'm in a certain mood, it's nice to throw paint at people."

Connect Four is a sort of last resort. Other than Monopoly, and Sam seems adamant about not playing Monopoly.

He's still considering yoga, though. Marijuana has been a negotiation Cas cannot see ending anytime soon.

"That'd be a waste of good painting supplies," Sam points out. "We have some pretty good artists in the camp."

"If you're referring to Dean, his only experience in art has been to scribble multiple dicks on my face."

Sam's eyes twinkle, smiling very thinly, as if the muscles in his face are atrophied. "They were anatomically correct, right? He's got a gift."

Castiel remembers that moment well enough: Dean Winchester, fearless leader, playing a joke, lightening the mood — a ghost of the old Dean, appearing like a miracle. All done likely to make Sam smile, he realizes. Because no matter how small the grin from Sam, he has slowly become their core, their root digging deep into the earth while the tree sways. For the people who matter here, Sam's smile is bright in the wake of a grand storm. Sam, sitting here across from him, ducking his head and trying not to grin, Castiel thinks, is what hope feels like. He's sure of it. He knows Dean, for all his seriousness, feels the same. Losing Sam now would be a blow that would be too hard to face. It's something even Cas doesn't want to think about for long.

When Cas speaks again, it's with more fondness.

"I would say you qualify as one of his gifts as well, lately. Or perhaps a gift to me, since I don't have to deal with his mopey, dramatic personality nearly as much anymore, thanks to you. Here," Castiel says, gliding his finger along the game board. "Diagonally."

Sam's smile brightens, though the emotion behind his eyes is bittersweet, watery and expressive. He looks like he wants to say something, something that's too hard to get out, something important. The light around them is warm and safe.

Sam just ends up saying, "Pretty sneaky, sis."

He falls asleep sitting up halfway through monopoly.


	5. EXTRA4: Shepherd's Herd

**EXTRA4:** Shepherd's Herd

* * *

Takes place after The Author's Notes.

* * *

"Everyone's at attention!" Tabs says, standing straight and sure of herself at nine years old. She's got a ponytail on her head that has its work so cut out for it, it'll undoubtedly snap after a week's use, which is really an aggravation to her mother more than her — one would think that at the end (and new beginning) of humanity, rubber bands to keep unruly hair tamed would be less of a rare commodity. "This is a new meeting, so listen up! Shhh! Oh my god, be quiet!"

The other children, all busy squabbling around the small makeshift classroom, don't seem to pay her any mind until she stands up on her chair and holds out her hands, as though their voices were a Red Sea for her to part. These dumb jerks just don't know when to take note of a seriously serious situation. She'd punch 'em all in the heads if the adults didn't discourage it. Or maybe she wouldn't. Still, it sure is a nice visual in her honest opinion.

"It's a mission from Cas! It's for Sam. He's in trouble."

That seems to do it. They all straighten up, voices silenced by the mention of the tallest in camp. Only about ten of them are there altogether, since the others are too young or too old to care about Tabs' rants, and have since dispersed away for the day. There's Blake, hair bleached nearly yellow from the summer sun, and there's Stephany, who just aborbs the sun until she's nearly copper, and of course there's her smaller sister, Emma, the one who chews on her thumb and stands shortest of all, hiding from the sun in her sister's shadow. Tabs clears her throat and sits down atop the desk while the getting's good. Adults are boring. They don't sit on their desks. Unless it's Sam, because he lounges on furniture a lot when he's not Gone to Bye-bye Land. It's pretty cool that a person that ginormous sits on stuff and expects it not to break.

"Cas says Chuck says Dean says that Sam's in a bad way. We gotta help out, m'kay? It's our job! Dean even said so, that's how you know it's true." Because nobody else around here knows how necessary a job is more than him, she thinks. He's aware of how important it is to make things okay again. Not that Tabs has a bias or anything for making sure Sam isn't suffering. Not that Tabs remembers how her grandmother passed away, with that glazed, faraway look in her eye. Not that Tabs has nightmares sometimes where her nana never remembers who she is or what her face looks like.

Doesn't matter. She's not a baby anymore. She's nine, and that's almost ten, and ten is only three away from a teenager. Emma, now. Emma's a baby. She's five and she still wets the bed. But yanno, Tabs can't blame her for that. There's still a lot of reasons out there for peeing on your bed.

"Does he need more apples?" says Blake very, very, very softly.

"Or someone to make him take a pill," Stephany nods, and then hunkers down next to Emma and reminds her, very sternly, that pills are never, ever candy and that only adults should take them unless they say you need one for bugs in your stomach. This will probably give Emma yet another reason to wanna pee the bed, Tabs thinks. Bugs? Come on, Stephany.

"Yeah," she tells them all. "He got a flu. Makes him act all funny. We should help make sure he drinks lots of water and soup, 'cus he always gives Grouchface a hard time like this." Grouchface is Dean. Dean's always been Grouchface. Tabs is positive that nobody could outdo him, but then, she'd never bet anything on it. She likes too much of her stuff to even risk it. Bad luck's a big ol' stink that happens sometimes. There's always bad luck, just in levels.

The plan's pretty simple. It's a herd wrangling a shepherd, basically. By the time they're all skipping and jogging and catching bugs on their way over to the middle of the settlement, they already have their work cut out for them: Sam's walking toward the fields, probably to do stupid stuff that other adults can do. Tabs thinks Sam's sometimes a big idiot, but he's a sad one, and she holds her tongue more for him. Dean's probably close by as always, but it goes without question that he probably thinks Sam's sleeping off his illness.

Dean can be pretty dumb, too.

Sam lets out a dazed "huh?" and blinks when they all swarm around him like little bees. Emma takes his hand in one of hers — or, well, more like grabs two of his fingers with her whole palm, because he's got a Beanstalk Giant's hand — and Stephany is right beside her like a diligent mother hawk. An older boy named Clinton puts a hand on Sam's back, lithe and lanky like Sam in his youth, and the other kids start rattling off things from school, more excited to chat with Sam than the so-called mission. Most of 'em are small, mostly unaware that Sam isn't completely right. Tabs knows he isn't. It's okay that he isn't.

One asks, "Sam, you okay?"

"Did you know lava turns to black rocks," someone says to Sam's left. He hums, not all there enough to really reply. Tabs scratches at her scalp, the weather humid and overwhelming in the open, and her rubber band snaps right off her hair. Sam flinches, then pulls the rubber band off of his own shaggy ponytail and helps pull it all back again for her. He seems more present now that he has.

And so it goes, a feverish, confused Sam is coralled by a bunch of elementary school children back into his room, while a displeased Dean Winchester heaves a breath. Sam sits down on his bed with a weary grunt, obviously too tired to tie his own shoes let alone work today. Tabs can see the fever in his face. It's all splotchy and he's sweaty and gross. Sam is sort of sweaty a lot of the time anyways, but she can tell the difference. She shoos most of the flock out now, because let's face it, kids are annoying sometimes and she's totally not a kid like them. The only exception is Emma and Stephany, who hold their post as Dean shakes out some medicine into his hand. His attempt to offer them to his brother obviously fails.

Obviously.

Tabs takes the pills confidently, not at all familiar with the look of envy Dean has when Sam easily lets her hand him a glass and the medication. She's not sure why. It's not a big deal, giving someone their medicine. "Hey," she says, and pretends she's talking to her nana. "You gotta take these to make you feel better. Please? For me? You can't get worser."

Sam looks at her with a furrowed brow and sad, sad eyes. She wishes he wouldn't. She likes when he's happy. And sharp. And says smarty-mouth stuff that makes her push his arm. Sam's her friend. Tabs wants all her friends to be happy. Anybody who thinks otherwise needs to get punched in the head; she'll do it herself, or at least daydream about it.

Stephany carefully brings him the tray with soup on it.

"I made it myself!" she beams. Stephany is a compulsive liar. She also says that if you shake your head too much it'll spin on your shoulders and never stop. Sam smiles at last, taking the spoon while Emma sits down on the bed next to him.

"Does it hurt?" Emma asks, blinking under black bangs. Thumb's in her mouth again, but the other hand pats Sam on the chest. "Here? It hurt?"

"A little," Sam rasps, coming back into reality fully. Tabs and Dean exchange smiles. Sam continues, "Today it doesn't hurt that bad. I'm alright, Emma, thank you. But you — you shouldn't touch me right now; I don't feel good. I don't want you to not feel good, too."

Tabs glances at Dean, seeing the overthinking brain behind the folded arms and stern expression. Looks like he's sad. Normally, that's Sam's job. You've got Grouchface and Sadface. Cas is just Sleepyface, most of the time. They've all got their own special faces.

Emma and Stephany are told to leave (and Sam has his wits about him enough to tell them to wash their hands a few times, just in case, because she's pretty sure he can't handle hurting people). The two sisters live with their aunt on the other side of the camp; she and Sam work a lot on the gardens together, and Cas stops by long enough to help lead them back. Soon it's just Tabs, sitting with Dean until Sam lulls back into a more peaceful sleep. She's not sure why she's afraid for him; he's not old, even if he's brittle in comparison to other adults. She's not sure what scares her, but it simply does, the same way the thought of drowning or going blind does.

"You can go, Tabitha. It's alright," Dean says with a rough voice.

"… No," she says quietly. "Sam's my friend. I wanna make sure he's sleeping okay."

Dean knows more about her than she does, maybe. Because he says, in a softer way (or as soft as someone like Dean can say anymore), "He'll be okay. Your grandma was a lot older than him. It's not his time to go, not for a long, long time."

She shrugs.

"… And I bet your gram's in a better place. She was a good lady."

"Sam's good, too," she points out. She's not sure why she's compelled to, but she is. Good people seem to never last as long as they should. Thoughts like that make her not feel as young as she should be. She scrubs one foot with the other until her mother stops by; Cas is a tattler. It's his fault for talking about Sam being sick while she's close by.

"He'll be up and at 'em for you tomorrow, Tabs," Dean promises.

Sam snores softly in his sleep, blissfully for at least a little while.


	6. EXTRA5: My Name Is Sam

Warnings for: starvation, illness, death, mental illness.

Another extra story.

* * *

Castiel comes back to camp carrying a person on his back.

Sam's working out in the garden when it happens, his palms blistered and forty-first birthday swift on the horizon; the apple tree is filling in, a little red world in the middle of green, green, green. Alive. The opposite of what the carried woman looks like, Sam thinks later on. He almost doesn't notice when his friend crosses past their fences, lost in the hazes he finds himself in sometimes. But then — he's just there, panting and requesting help, and Sam isn't even sure how to do that. He's never been a healer, and despite what others say, he's too worried his hands will break whatever living thing they're touching. Why wouldn't he think as much? Look what Lucifer's done, with his hands and feet. Stomping through people, sapping life out of them, and all with his face. No, he's not a healer. He's no good with handling delicate creatures.

He's good with _tomatoes_, but.

"Sam," Castiel manages, shifting the weight on his back; the woman's body sags over, but remains steady enough. "Are you all here, right now?"  
Sam knows what that means. He nods, suddenly realizing that he's a Winchester, and Winchesters are bound to the life of handling corpses. If he's allowed to hold a baby, he's required to handle bodies as equivalent exchange. He reaches out and, despite how thin he's gotten, easily plucks her from Castiel's back like someone taking another's coat. Holding her like she's a tired babe, he looks down into a gaunt face; she's young, a teenager maybe just out of puberty, blonde hair matted and in her face… Light as a feather, warm as a furnace; he can see the bones in her limp hands curled against her stomach. Sick. She's very sick, not a corpse, not dead but alive. The thoughts strike him like slaps across his face as he adjusts a shaking grip to hold her as comfortably as he can against his dirt-speckled. All the while, Castiel catches his breath and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"She's sick," Sam says, panic edging in the way he stands, but Castiel just squeezes his broad but bony shoulder to ease him down.

"Can you carry her for me, Sam?" Castiel asks, and Sam swallows hard. He doesn't have time to freak out. He remembers how they used to save people, a long time ago. Before Lucifer. He remembers carrying a lot of people just like this. Kids. Sam remembers pulling children from water and out of holes and from the clutches of monsters, which are undoubtedly still out there somewhere, wondering where their food supplies have gone. She reminds him of that. She looks like something sucked the life out of her. He nods, nods and starts pacing away, leaving Cas to follow as his mind picks up. Doctor. Medical. She needs to be looked after. She's so thin. Too thin. Even he isn't that thin, and it's like walking with skeletons in your hands instead of hoarding them in your closets.

The skeleton moans (it's not a skeleton). Sam blinks hard, looking down into her dazed face.

"It's okay," Sam speaks softly. "It's okay, it's okay. I got you. You're going to be okay."

"… Mom…" she mumbles, and he wishes he could give her something for it. He doesn't know her mother. He knows what it's like to whisper her name and recieve nothing in return, though. He tucks the crown of her head under his chin and hushes her softly, listening to the rhythm of his and Castiel's shoes as they move through the thick and unkempt grass. They've got her settled into a bed before long, and Dean's clomping his way through in those intimdating boots of his to see what the hell is going on; inside the medical tent, Sam gains his wits all at once, putting a hand over Dean's heart and stopping him short. The girl's been in and out of consciousness, and while Sam knows his brother has a ever-growing heart, he also knows his brother still scowls too much and has long-since forgotten his bedside manner.

His voice is steady, eyes soft with concern. "She's sick. Cas carried her in, but she's all skin and bones. We're letting Bedham check on her and see what he can do."

Dean's posture goes from alpha male to sheepish animal under Sam's stern gaze, and he pats his brother's hand. "… Right. I got it, Sammy. Cas brought her in?"

He explains in full, though there's not much to it; Castiel had just been out on the edges of the camp (Dean grumbles a lot about how he shouldn't be doing that shit), and he'd come across her, barely conscious and ill. Sam had left seeds strewn in the dirt and his watering pail can't handle much more rust, but he decides to hand the reins over to the others in camp. Just this once. He plops down next to the sick girl and tries to remember what is the most comforting thing to do here; he's been where she is, only he wasn't able to die. He'd just lay there with Dean and Cas by his side, sometimes Risa or Chuck. He remembers wanting to die back then sometimes, wishing someone could crush his head under something heavy and finally take him out. Did she want that, too? Was she too frail and in pain to ask for it, to do it herself? He'd tried, he remembers. He'd tried, and… It was awful. He doesn't want to think about it. Dean's sewn up his throat before.

Swallowing convulsively, he reaches out and smooths back her hair. He liked when the others did this for him, before the depression lessened.

But maybe she'll hate him for it. It's okay. He can risk it, apologize later. At the very least, apologize for how calloused his hands are. They probably are too rough. He didn't think of that.

"Shouldn't be in here," Dr. Bedham tells him, adjusting the IV drip in her arm. "She could be contagious. Could be disease."

Sam shrugs. "I'll be fine. If Croatoan viruses can't kill me, not sure this will."

Dr. Bedham just cocks his head at him, as if remembering what a specimen he is. Sometimes he expects the doctor to just forgo all common courtesy and prod him with a stick. Maybe Dean's potential ire is the only think that keeps that away. The doc just leaves them be with the reminder that he shouldn't get too attached; as if she's a cat or a dog or something. Sam knows the guy means while, isn't as awful as he sounds because he's just seen too much like Dean has — but this kid, she's not an animal. She's a person. Someone who's got very little chance to make it through the next few weeks.

But she could, though. She could.

Sam takes up watching out for her the way he does his gardens, abandoning them to Castiel, much to the ex-angel's disdain; he's not much of a gardener, telling Sam that he would have preferred Joshua the angel over him — but Sam just shakes his head with a smile and reminds him that Castiel is the only angel Sam can depend on. Sam takes up feeding the quiet girl some apple sauce when she's strong enough to even open her mouth and swallow, and he's quick to get a basin for her when she can't keep it all down. Sometimes she doesn't aim very well, but it's okay. He's had chupacabra guts on him before. "That's a smell you can't get off you," he finishes telling her while he's stirring the lukewarm bowl, setting it aside. The shell-shocked teenager blinks slowly, glancing distantly at him. He talks about wendigos, because he figures it doesn't matter anymore, keeping secrets.

"Mom…?" she whispers again, and Sam sighs and runs a hand over her forehead again. It's so hot. She's boiling in there. Infection, Dr. Bedham told him. She has to fight it herself; it's bad. Malnutrition makes it worse.

Sam bites his lip, rubbing his neck. "I'm not your mom. I hope your mom doesn't look like me. I'm not much of a looker."

A few hours later, the girl says, "What's a wendigo?"

So Sam explains in detail, getting a few spoonfuls of soup in her. Dean watches sometimes, looking like he feels bad for Sam. What's there to feel bad for, for him? He's not the one suffering, right now. Maybe it reminds Dean of something sad. Maybe Dean's projecting a little. He or Cas nudges at him to leave for a little bit, take a piss, take a shower. Has he really been staying in here that long? He just didn't want to miss anything, leave her in a bad way. He carried her in there, didn't he? He's waiting to see if he has to carry her out, is all. He owes her because she grew up in this world because of him. If she asked for his liver or an eyeball or his heart, he'd rip it out and hand it over. That's just how life is now. Sam's lucky like that, he thinks. Could be worse. Could be the dark again.

"I'll leave a nightlight for you," he says patiently to the girl. She furrows her brow slowly at him. "To keep the dark away."

She slouches into her pillow, closing her eyes. "You can't. Keep it away. Not forever."

He's stunned at first, to hear her speak so certainly. So clearly. Like she knows everything. Maybe she does. Maybe Sam's only just began to understand the world, himself. He's never sure what he knows.

He crouches down beside her bed like he's about to start prayer.

"What's your name? You ever gonna tell me?" he says, rubbing her hand gently with his thumb.

Her lips work for a moment. Her eyes look like bruised spots on fruit, sinking and darkening. A tear jaggedly rolls into her ear.

"Sam," she whispers, drifting off again, and shaking her lightly doesn't change the answer. She passes away in the middle of the night, while Sam reads a book beside her. He's damaged enough that he lets himself cry a little for her, as he considers how to take care of what's left behind. A sheet is good for wrapping bodies; he wraps her safely, considering if they should burn her. Ghosts are always in pain. But he thinks maybe a burial is okay, just for now, just today. And he'll carry her there, because life is a cycle, and this is how his life spirals, an infinite fate. As he carries the skeleton to their graveyard with his brother close enough to touch shoulders (fitting), he's still not sure if she told him her name, or just his own.


End file.
